


Costumes, Man

by Lucy Gillam (cereta)



Category: Batman (Comics), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:16:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereta/pseuds/Lucy%20Gillam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester in No Man's Land.  What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Costumes, Man

**Author's Note:**

> Way2busymom, in an effort to distract me, said, "Dean meets Dick Grayson. Discuss."
> 
> Part of me wants to say that they met the morning after [Sam and Dick](http://cereta.livejournal.com/282706.html?thread=4402258#t4402258) , in which case Dean would look at Dick (who would be blushing a really lot and muttering about having somewhere to be), then at Sam (who would be blushing and looking pissed off that he was blushing), and back at Dick, and then stick out his hand and introduce himself, say that it was good to know that his brother had good taste no matter what side of the fence it was on, and, tell the truth, was Sammy a screamer? Dick would flee, and Dean would spend the rest of the day good-naturedly razzing Sam about sleeping with a guy named "Dick." "Truth in advertising, anyway." "Seriously, shut up."
> 
> But that would be cheating.
> 
> So I started _thinking_ , and, well

The sooner he got out of Gotham, the better.

It wasn't actually that the city was cut off from the rest of the world, no law, no order. That part actually made his life a little easier. No one looked twice at a guy carrying several types of guns, some knives, a camping shovel, and a random bottle of water labeled with a cross here in No Man's Land. The small gas can and the container of salt he'd hidden in a backpack, figuring both would be sought-after commodities at this point

No, it was the tendency for random people in costumes to show up in the middle of something. And it just never ended well. How they could be so damn powerful and yet so unaware of the shit that lived in the dark was one of those things Dean stopped trying to figure out when he was sixteen.

Besides, he really didn't like leaving the car alone for this long.

Still, nothing for it: the sooner he found the grave, the sooner he salted and burned the bones, the sooner he could get back to Dad. As proud as he was every time Dad trusted him on a solo gig, lately being away from him too long was making Dean nervous.

And if that meant searching every damn stone in this graveyard, so be it.

"You know," he muttered to no one in particular, "this is a lot easier when you can ask someone where the hell someone's buried."

Marshall, Sarantakos, Blaine…

Joseph Cole. Gotcha.

"Then again," he said to the same no one as he unfolded the shovel, "lack of a caretaker does have its points."

Dean had just started to hit the coffin when a small, sharp object whizzed by his face and embedded itself in the dirt wall. Shit. Dean let himself slump for a minute. Please don't let it be Batman, please don't let it be…

It wasn't. Younger dude, smaller mask, black and blue costume. Dean never bothered keeping track of their names. The guy was jumping down from the nearest mausoleum, landing with an ease that made Dean's knees ache a little. Dude, that was so unfair.

"I don't suppose it's worth saying this isn't what it looks like?" he said with his most innocent, who-me? smile.

"Well, it looks like you're digging up a grave," the guy said. Yeah, not getting anything by this one. "Let me guess: you've heard the guy was buried with some family heirloom that's worth a ton of money."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "He was?" Not that he'd take it, of course: taking objects from the graves of restless spirits was just asking for trouble, but still. "No, man, I…ah, hell, you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me." The tone did not exactly ooze openness.

Still, nothing to lose at this point. "See, Joe here was murdered in a bed and breakfast up in Maine, over some card game or something equally stupid, and shipped back here to his family to be buried, and now his spirit's like literally scaring people to death up there. And the only way to get rid of a spirit is to salt and burn the bones, so…" He waved in the direction of the almost-uncovered coffin.

The guy nodded for a moment, then said, "Yeah. Not so much believing that."

"Didn't think you would," Dean replied. "Look, seriously, man, you want to stand there and watch me? Make sure I don't steal anything? Be my guest. But if I don't do this, more people are gonna die, and I can't let that happen." Not that he was entirely sure what he'd do if the guy tried to stop him. Their policy with costumes had always been give in now, come back later, but he was pretty sure that this time, "later" would mean that someone was watching the grave.

The guy's face was impassive, his stance no less sure, but Dean could practically see the cogs turning in his head. He sensed he'd said some kind of magic word, maybe the bit about not letting people die. He supposed you didn't dress up in a silly costume and fight crime if you didn't share that particular sentiment.

"All right," the guy said finally. "But once you're done, you leave, and I'll be watching you go."

Dean grinned. "Watch all you want, man. View's worth it, if I do say so myself."

And damn if that didn't almost get a smile.

The rest of it went predictably: cracking open the coffin, salting and burning the bones, all stuff he'd been doing since he was twelve and convinced Dad he could be of help. Funny, at the time he'd thought about bringing up that some of the costumes' sidekicks were his age, but even then he'd known better. The guy didn't help, but he didn't interfere, either, and he watched with a clear interest.

When it was done, Dean climbed out and made slightly more than the usual effort to refill the grave, what with the audience and all. He'd have to wait until he was out of No Man's Land to call Dad to see if it had worked; his cell wasn't much use here right now.

"And on that note," he said, wiping his hands off on his jeans, "I'll be leaving. And you'll be watching."

That did earn a smile, a small one, twisted a bit with irony, but a smile. The guy looked at the hastily filled grave. "So that really…?"

"God's honest, man." Dean was burning to ask how they could possibility not know about it, but something in the guy's expression stopped him. He got a feeling this guy already knew too much about evil, anyway. He cleared his throat instead. "So, anyway…leaving."

The guy nodded. "Probably best."

"Right." Dean gathered his equipment together and headed toward the gate. After a few yards, he turned back. "Hey!"

The guy, who was already back on top of the mausoleum, looked down questioningly.

"You know anything about Bludhaven?"

The guy frowned. "A little, why?"

"Oh, nothing, I'm just headed there, and I wondered if you knew a place where a guy could get a beer at 3AM."

To Dean's complete surprise, the guy started to laugh, a real, genuine laugh.

"What?"

But the guy just waved, and leapt into a nearby tree, and was gone.

Dean shook his head. Costumes. Who could figure?


End file.
